


The Morning

by whimsicott



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Gift Fic, It’s just PWP with some mild feelings, M/M, Not super explicit but to be safe, There was a request for insufferable friend Lancelot so here it is, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 18:12:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18211826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicott/pseuds/whimsicott
Summary: Sometimes Percival thinks that the worst thing to ever exist is Lancelot in the mornings. Lancelot, with his knowing smile and shit eating grin as Percival descends down the stairs, his hair messier than he would like it to be, his sleeping robes clumsily thrown on and not fitting perfectly along his form.





	The Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Atan as part of a trade, hope you enjoy it bby!

Sometimes Percival thinks that the worst thing to ever exist is Lancelot in _the_ mornings. Lancelot, with his knowing smile and shit eating grin as Percival descends down the stairs, his hair messier than he would like it to be, his sleeping robes clumsily thrown on and not fitting perfectly along his form.

Lancelot, with his cheeky “good morning Percival,” with his blue eyes scanning Percival’s figure. 

It almost makes Percival swear he’s never going to do this again, no — he would’ve swear that much, if only he doesn’t know himself so well — well enough to know that no matter what he’s going to end up in this situation again sometime in the near or at least not too far future, stumbling out of Vane’s bedroom, attempting to sneak away, only to run into Lancelot who for some reason decided that today, of all day, he’s going to wake up early and join them for breakfast.

He grumbles incoherently before slumping down on the chair across Lancelot.

He had woken up alone that morning, but that much isn’t a surprise. It’s not that Vane is the type to disregard his sexual partners or anything — in fact, Vane is the kind to cling all night — Vane just has a habit of waking up ridiculously early to make breakfast, as is evident right now by the stack of pancakes sitting at the centre of the table.

And Percival is sure, Vane isn’t the kind to kiss and tell either.

Lancelot just knows Vane for far too long and is far too insufferable to let this go.

“So,” Lancelot starts, that shit-eating grin still gracing his face. Dignified knight captain he is not on mornings like these. “Long night?”

Percival answers with yet another grumble, glancing at the door, wondering between trying to make a quick exit and hoping Vane burst in right now and change the subject.

But it’s Lancelot himself who changes the topic.

“I’m actually here for a good reason this time,” doubtful, Percival thinks. “The captain invited Vane and I to join the crew on Auguste Islands — she assumed you’re coming of course, with you being part of her crew, but well, I thought I’d ask anyway.”

“She’s my vassal,” Percival insists, the first real words for him this morning.

“Right,” Lancelot says dismissively. “Anyway, the beach. You are coming right?”

He really counts this as a good reason for Lancelot to be here, considering that Lancelot should already know the answer. No, Lancelot had even uttered the answer: he’s going to go, because as it is right now he’s with the Grancypher’s crew and where they go, he goes.

Percival narrows his eyes at Lancelot, displeased.

“Alright,” Lancelot laughs. “I’m here for the pancakes!”

Still doubtful, Percival thinks, but he’ll let it pass for now.

Because Lancelot is right on one point: Percival did have a long night.

 

Their relationship started with too much alcohol and continues for a lack of better decision making skills, or so Percival would say. But the truth is he enjoys the way Vane kiss, desperate and wanting, sloppy and hot like the mutt he is. He enjoys the way Vane holds him, with those arms that allow him to melt into them. 

He would never admit it, of course, not drunk and much less sober, but this thing between them — whatever this thing is, because they’ve never put a label on it — allows him to breathe in a way he isn’t familiar with. 

They move clumsily up the stairs together that evening, Vane trailing behind him, subtly nudging him up then into the bedroom. They would have to leave for Auguste tomorrow, but tonight, tonight they’re still here in Vane’s little place in Feendrache, a house all too close to Lancelot’s but far neater even if the owner isn’t always home due to his duties in the palace.

But whenever Percival is here, Vane would come home. Percival doesn’t want to read too much into it, but he lets himself enjoy Vane’s presence in this now familiar space. In evenings like these, lit by orange lantern lights, it feels like this is the whole world, like this is enough unlike all the searching Percival does on almost every other hour. 

It’s not that Percival hates that part of himself, the one who’s always seeking a way to create a kingdom where all could be safe, the one who looks to the skies feeling small in all that it contains even as he keeps taking them in one after another, but sometimes, a place like Vane’s home —- a place like Vane’s side —- is all he feels he needs.

Sometimes, it feels like being pushed down on the bed, his robes pulled off with characteristic kindness that seems to contrast Vane’s rough, large hands, is all he wants.

It’s so strange how easily he comes undone under Vane, how easily he lets a moan leave his throat at the warm sensations that move across his body, following wherever Vane’s touches go. 

“Percy,” Vane’s voice is a little breathless, giving it a rough quality. “Are you alright?”

Of course he’s alright. Of course he’s fine. They wouldn’t be here if he doesn’t want to be here.

But even at times like this, he finds it hard to be completely honest.

“Yeah,” he says, a single word. But Vane smiles like he knows the many more that goes behind it. The ones that say he wants to be here, the ones that say he wonders if Vane could feel his racing pulse from his skin.

“You’re really warm,” Vane comments.

“It’s a hot evening,” Percival replies immediately. 

But instead of arguing back, Vane places a kiss on his lips instead, a kiss that Percival would describe dishonestly as slobbering and would think to himself is passionate, with their tongues moving against each others’ and their teeth barely scraping by.

It is around then could he feel Vane’s hardness, creating a tent on his trousers that pushed down against Percival’s own. 

Vane laughs awkwardly as they part their kisses, even more breathless than before. 

“We have to get up early tomorrow,” he says.

“What, and you’re going to say it’s late?” Percival scoffs. “Isn’t it a little too late for that?”

And Vane sighs in response.

“You’re right,” he says.

Percival watches as Vane unbuckles his belt. 

Percival watches, hearing his heart beating louder than he ever wants it to in his chest.

He lets himself follow, letting his hands reach out to push Vane’s tight white shirt up. Vane laughs once more as he strips the shirt off his body, leaving Percival’s hands on his bare stomach, hard and muscled, reflecting training especially if one considers the giant breakfast of pancakes this morning, then the even bigger and grander lunch and dinner.

This isn’t one of the top five reasons Percival sleeps with Vane, but he would be lying to himself if he doesn’t admit, at least internally, that this is a nice bonus to everything. 

Vane responds by pulling down Percival’s trousers. 

The first time they did this, they were messy and there were many times where it felt like it would end abruptly. Their limbs felt like they were in all the wrong places and their clothes seemed like completely impossible puzzles. Of course, they weren’t quite sober back then, but Percival doesn’t think it would be all that much better if they had been.

Now, they are more practised. What they do is familiar, and they thrive in this familiarity. 

There’s nothing foreign anymore about the way Vane’s hand make a single stroke up Percival’s member, there’s nothing foreign anymore about the form of Vane’s cock, visible even in the dim light of the bedroom. 

Even the fingers that stretch him, once a strange intrusion, feels comforting now, making his body shudder in anticipation of more, drawing short sharp moans from him.

“You like it?” Vane asks. Vane always ask.

“Stop asking,” Percival replies. Percival always reply as so.

It is Vane who decides when they’re ready, a lesson they learn the hard way from Percival rushing through things, and the fact Percival falls under Vane’s control here makes him simultaneously nervous and excited.

“Alright,” Vane says. “Soon.”

Even though he wonders if Vane does things like that on purpose. 

When it does happen though — when he finally takes Vane’s member inside of him, its tip first, tentative and slow, before its full length all of a sudden that seems to betray every slow and quiet and soft thing Vane would’ve done throughout the night, it is like every knot inside him coming undone.

Here, in this room, he is in his own world.

Here, for now, he has everything.

 

“You could’ve waited until we get to Auguste,” Lancelot notes as he notices Percival’s puffy eye bags. “Now you overslept _and_ look miserable.”

“Shut up,” Percival says, downing another mug of the coffee prepared on the Grancypher’s newly opened cafe. “I’m not in the mood for this.”

“You’ll be in the mood for something once we get there,” Lancelot says cheekily. “Sandy beaches and all that. Real romantic.”

Percival groans.

But as much as he isn’t honest enough to say it out loud, he knows deep inside Lancelot is right.

That in the end, he is going to fall into Vane’s arms once more, only to feel mild regrets the next morning again as Lancelot wait for him with that shit-eating grin.


End file.
